


Pride, Wrath

by Tokyo_the_Glaive



Series: Tumblr Shorts [17]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-17 07:01:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9310391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tokyo_the_Glaive/pseuds/Tokyo_the_Glaive
Summary: Hux, still smarting from an argument with Ren, made the decision to go into the field. Ren didn't know. If he had, he would have stopped him. Unfortunately, he didn't know, not until everything went pear-shaped and the tide had already turned against them.(Or, the one where Hux gets himself captured.)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [valda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/valda/gifts).



> Posted a while back on tumblr in two parts, both of which were requested by cosleia (valda). I hope you enjoy!

It was pride, pure and simple, that sent Hux down to the front lines during a planned strike on an unsuspecting Resistance base.

“ _Coward_ ,” Ren had said. “ _You sit back and watch while the rest of us fight.”_

The words had gotten under Hux’s skin more than he was willing to admit. They’d been fighting, that was all. They fought a lot these days. Hux had never anticipated that their “honeymoon period” would last more than a few hours, but that they would have slid so far back as to be insulting each other’s character bothered him. He wouldn’t admit it, though. Never admit it. After all, when it boiled down to it, Ren’s feelings weren’t relevant. Hux knew himself to be an adept commander and a superb strategist. If Ren thought less of him for sticking to his strengths, then perhaps they never should have admitted their feelings towards one another at all.

The thought left a stone in Hux’s gut, heavy and unrelenting. He cared, too much. No cold attitude or feigned indifference could change the fact that Ren’s criticism had hurt in a way that it hadn’t before. This wasn’t a trick, was it? Ren hadn’t told Hux _that_ just to make his own barbs stick better, had he?

 _You have no combat experience_ , a persistent, mean-spirited voice at the back of Hux’s mind whispered. It echoed his old instructors, admirals and moffs and commandants of all stripes—all dead now, but haunting him, sure as his own breath. _You’re a brain, not a blaster. He’s right_.

Hux shook himself. He stood nothing by proving himself, once and for all, _to himself_. It wasn’t for Ren. No.

The planned strike was a simple one that suggested easy victory. They’d intercepted Resistance chatter discussing a base on Mnombe III. It was a bold move on the Resistance’s part; Mnombe III was an inhospitable world, blessed with a breathable atmosphere but cursed with a truly horrific menagerie of flora and fauna. Hux would have his men come in under the cover of Mnombe’s moon, Brunei. They had ground and air strikes planned, and for once, Hux would go with the latter. He would go down, kill a Resistance fighter or three, and return. That would be plenty. Perhaps he’d even learn something from it.

With that thought, he assigned a squadron of ‘troopers to himself, snatched his modified and utterly non-regulation blaster out of his desk, straightened his coat, and made his way to the hangar.

* * *

Fighting through the dense tree cover on Mnombe III was more difficult than Ren had expected. Mist had rolled in from the nearby coast, and the trees grew close and thick, providing both them and the enemy with places to hide and snipe from a distance. None of that hampered Ren, but his ‘troopers were struggling terribly. He relayed them commands and enemy positions as best as he could, but with so many bodies on the field keeping everyone together and coherent was nearly impossible. Hux had picked a terrible time for an ambush. They ought to have waited for a clearer opening, not played directly into the hands of the Resistance.

Ren winced at his own thoughts. He’d been overly harsh of late, unable to sleep or rest. Hux had been his nearest target. There was no way for any of them to know that the weather would be so inclement on this particular day, and they’d been warned about the dense foliage and the threat of animal attacks. Hux had done his due diligence.

As if on cue, Ren sensed something—a flash, brief but pungent. Not fear, not anger, but pride. Righteous indignation.

 _Hux_.

Ren frowned behind his mask. Surely that was impossible. Hux would be aboard a ship up in orbit, monitoring the battle from above. That was his _job_. He wouldn’t— _oh_. Ren remembered their argument, the stricken look on Hux’s face.

Surely he brought ‘troopers with him down, never mind that Ren hadn’t noticed any substantial number missing. Surely he wouldn’t come down to the front lines. He was probably projecting his fury from the back, intending for Ren to sense it. Fine. Two could play at that game.

Ren sliced a man in half and was preparing to kill another when he felt it again—coursing fury laced with something sharp and sinister. Ren felled his target, then fell back, listening. He let the Force twist through his mind, dragging him across the field, reaching him in a thousand directions before converging on a point.

Ren was running before he’d even finished visualizing. He could sense Phasma’s squadrons and his own, but there was one more set—and _only one_. Hux had taken a single squadron. He was alone, on the front lines, and _furious._

The Resistance had found him, or vice versa.

Ren tore through the trees, breathing hard. His breath misted in his mask as he ran, open-mouthed and panting, as hard as he possibly could. He felt men and women dying—‘troopers, all of them. There, on the other side of the battle, alone.

A painful, blinding mental blow, and Hux’s fury disappeared. Not dead, but incapacitated. Ren redoubled his pace, pushing himself as hard as he thought he could. The sound of engines roaring filled his ears—close, but not close enough. He reached forward, both physically and mentally, blindly, desperately. He broke through to a clearing where Resistance fighters were urging a fighter to take off.

Ren light his saber and sliced through the first three, then tried to concentrate on the fighter. The engines were hot and they were preparing for takeoff. Ren pulled as hard as he could, furious and cold. A volley of blasterfire distracted him, and in stopping one, swatting away the rest, he lost his grip on the fighter. The engines flared, and then the ship was gone, blasting away.

Ren screamed. Not a single Resistance member in that clearing escaped his wrath.

* * *

Hux woke, disoriented and slightly queasy, to a dark room. His hands were cuffed behind him, and he was sitting in a chair in front of a table. A woman sat before him, her hands pressed together as if in prayer. He recognized her immediately, even as his head swam and his vision danced.

“Good morning, General,” Organa said, her smile tight.

“Pffsak off,” Hux said—slurred, more like, though it hadn’t been his intention. Organa’s smile drew just a little wider.

“Good of you to finally join us,” she continued. “We were beginning to think you might need the kiss of true love.”

Hux didn’t understand the reference but understood it to be derogatory. He spit but only managed to hit the table. Organa didn’t so much as flinch, though her expression seemed to crystallize. He’d hit a nerve.

“Some interrogation,” he said, his tongue more under his control than before. “Are you going to stare me to death?”

“If that’s what it takes,” Organa responded mildly.

“Don’t you have people for this?”

“Of course.” Her tone was amicable—disarming, even. Hux tried to catalogue her body language looking for cues, but his vision hadn’t cleared enough to read any tells. “But there’s a time and a place for that. I wanted to talk, General to General.”

“You’re a rabble-rouser with delusions of grandeur,” Hux sneered, “a sycophant hoping beyond hope to reclaim a tarnished past. You’re no General.”

“It takes one to know one.”

Her words stung and echoed in his mind—she’d told him that before, once, in a dingy cantina after he walked squarely and unknowingly into a room full of Resistance spies. He glared at her, and she stood up, straightening her vest.

“Someone will be with you shortly,” she said, “to discuss the particulars of your future.”

“Not going to do it yourself?” Hux asked, infusing as much venom as he could into his words. “Don’t want to see your men try to _break_ me?”

Organa sighed. “No,” she said, sounding tired. “I don’t. I doubt you will, either. Consider your options carefully.” She headed toward the single door, the only way out. “Take care, General.”

Hux remained silent. The door closed behind her, leaving him alone, cuffed to a chair and sore. He took in a deep breath, trying to determine if he could hear or see anything that might help him. He looked as closely as he could and found nothing; he listened as hard as he could and heard nothing. He was thirsty, and uncomfortable, and utterly ashamed. He’d been taken alive, by General Organa no less. Ex-Rebellion, utterly insufferable. He’d hoped someone would have killed her by now. Even one of her own subordinates would be preferable to the reality that she was still in charge.

Seconds passed, then minutes, then—possibly—hours. No one came. The lights stayed on, and Hux remained alone. He had to use the ‘fresher, not that he thought they’d let him.

Isolation. Torture. Hux had never been tortured in any real capacity. The simulations hadn’t mimicked the feeling of isolation, or the wriggling notion that he might be left, forgotten, to die cuffed to a chair.

He closed his eyes and took in another deep breath, and another. He would endure.

* * *

The Resistance fleet had scattered. Ren reached with the Force to find where, but they were too far afield. He’d have as much luck finding Hux that way as he would have finding Skywalker.

He screamed and raged, Mitaka standing behind him, wringing his hands like an errand schoolchild. Ren would have killed him then and there were it not for the persistent specter of Hux—Hux who valued Mitaka, who would only appreciate Ren’s anger to a certain extent. He had to be careful—direct it at those responsible. Mitaka was merely the one Hux had temporarily left in charge while he went down to the surface. Nothing more.

“Sir?” Mitaka asked, voice even in spite of his absolute terror.

“Lieutenant,” Ren spat. He could refrain from killing him, but he couldn’t quite manage _civility_.

Mitaka gulped. “I will report back to you as soon as we have word,” he said. “Will you…?” He didn’t finish the thought; likely he didn’t know _how_ to do so. He wanted to know what Ren would be up to in the interim. Mitaka had the bridge, but there was no one even nominally in charge of ground forces. Phasma could command, as could Mitaka, but without Hux, something key was missing. They needed him back.

 _Ren_ needed him back.

 _This is your fault_. Skywalker’s voice, twisted but true to life. _You led him to the field. You didn’t reach him in time. You failed, Ben._

Ren took in a deep breath. He needed to answer Mitaka.

“That is none of your concern,” he managed to say. “Leave me.”

Mitaka fled.

* * *

Hux had just started to doze off, discomfort and full bladder aside, when the doors opened. He’d never been the fastest to fully wake, and the same was true then. He blinked blearily as someone came to sit across from him. His visitor had a tray with pale, a glass of water and grey lumps of rations on it. The water had Hux clenching his legs together.

“Guess they haven’t let you out yet,” the visitor—a man with a mop of black hair and a rakish smile—said. “You remember me?” Hux didn’t answer; it seemed safer. The man’s smile dropped. “I stole one of your ships and took someone with me. His name’s Finn, now, not whatever number you assigned him.”

Hux’s blood ran cold. The traitorous ‘trooper had escaped with _this_? That meant this was the pilot—the one Ren had interrogated. The name came to Hux’s mind: Poe Dameron.

“I remember you,” Hux said, smiling lazily. “Poe Dameron, Resistance pilot and scum. You screamed so loudly, I could hear you in the hallway. What was it, your mother Ren killed in your mind? Or maybe it was your father.”

Dameron’s eyes flashed with barely restrained anger. Hux knew that look. He’d seen it on Ren’s face plenty of times before, though it had been a long time. Since their liaisons had begun, Ren had wanted to murder him less. It had been a refreshing change.

“Both?” Hux prodded.

Dameron slammed his hands down on the table. A drop of water escaped the cup to land just over the rim.

“That’s enough,” Dameron said. “If you want to eat, you’ll cooperate.”

“With you?” Hux asked.

“That’s right,” Dameron replied, working his jaw. “The other boys want to skin you alive. I’m your only chance at survival.”

“Survival?” Hux asked. “You want to keep me _alive_?” He leaned back as far as he could. “Idiocy. Pure lunacy.”

“Got a death wish?” Dameron asked, almost conversational. Hux didn’t reply. He shut his eyes and wished to be alone. “They’ll make you suffer before they end you.”

Hux rolled his eyes. “It can’t be worse than this,” he muttered.

Dameron laughed. “You think _I’m_ bad?” He whistled. “You’re not one for combat, are you? What were you doing on the field?”

He rolled his head back and met Dameron’s eyes. No way he was going to answer either of those questions.

“I’m meant to believe you don’t want to kill me,” Hux mused. He forced himself to laugh, aware of how fake it sounded. He resolved not to try that again, no matter how tough it made him look. “Everyone else does, but you? Oh, no, you’re too _good_. Don’t want to get your hands dirty? Or, oh, has little _Finn_ reverted to his conditioning? You want me to fix his poor little head so that you can have your darling _friend_ back?”

Dameron decked him. Hux’s head snapped clean to one side. He could feel a split lip and a wicked pain in the side of his face. When he laughed, it wasn’t false at all.

“Don’t—don’t want to hurt me,” he spluttered. “Ridiculous.”

Dameron sat back down across the table. He looked stricken, and not a little sick.

“That’s why they send interrogators and not pilots,” Hux sneered. Definitely bleeding; he felt a stream of blood running down from his mouth to drip off of his chin. “Even the Rebellion knew that.”

Dameron straightened his stance.

“You,” he said, “are a son of a bitch.”

“Probably,” Hux admitted, never mind how much it hurt. _Too close_.

“But you’re a smart son of a bitch,” Dameron continued.

Hux blinked at Dameron, suddenly aware of just why he’d been sent when any thug could have beaten the tar out of him in mere moments.

“Oh,” Hux said, stupid with his revelation, “you’re here to try to _recruit_ me.”

* * *

Ren found himself on the bridge. With nowhere else to go and nothing to do, he stalked above the officers working at their consoles and watched the sweat run down their necks. _Good_ , he thought. They should be nervous. They had an important job to do.

“Sir!” one of them said, standing up and knocking her chair over in the process. “Message posted on the holonet!”

“Report, lieutenant,” Mitaka snapped. Ren couldn’t help but think how Mitaka paled in comparison to Hux in terms of manner and authority. It was a wonder anyone was doing what they were meant to at all.

The lieutenant glanced once at Ren, clearly nervous. That made more sense.

“Sirs,” she said, swallowing. “Message reads that the Resistance captured General Hux at 1704 yesterday and has kept him in custody since. General Organa demands Kylo Ren contact her to arrange an exchange.”

A hush fell over the bridge. Ren’s own breathing roared in his ears.

“How are we to contact her?” Mitaka demanded, eyes wild. Ren could feel desire rolling off of him—the desire to be rid of this command post as soon as humanly possible. “What is the validity of this message?”

“Unclear, sir,” the lieutenant admitted. “The message was publicly posted from an untraceable source.”

Mitaka glanced to Ren, questioning.

Ren had no doubts.

* * *

Under Dameron’s watch, Hux was permitted to use the ‘fresher before he ate. Dameron didn’t accompany him inside, which Hux found overly lenient. Didn’t these people know what he was capable of? With his cuffs removed, he permitted himself the luxury of time. The ‘fresher wasn’t spacious, but it was _equipped_ , and if there was one thing Hux had been drilled in time and time again, courtesy of his father, it was the art of escape.

When he emerged, he allowed Dameron to frisk him—“just in case,” Hux was told—and to cuff him again, this time in the front. “Just so you can eat, when the time comes.”

“Of course,” Hux said. He willed himself to civility. This was a fellow Human—a Human on the wrong side, and a Human who would likely be dead before nightfall, but still a Human.

Dameron didn’t respond. He escorted Hux back to his cell and proceeded to sit as he had before, watching as Hux gingerly began his meal. He doubted it was drugged; they had no need for that now that they had him.

“Do they do that?” Dameron asked.

Hux swallowed, lowering the flimsy utensil he’d been given from his mouth. This was what he’d been waiting for—an opening. If Dameron was watching his face, he’d be less interested in his hands. Hux let them fall to the table, where his fingers were partially hidden behind the tray. Slowly, careful not to move his arms too much, he set to work.

“Do what?” he asked.

“Revert,” Dameron asked, waving a hand. “The conditioning you put them through.”

“You want me,” he said finally, as primly as he could, “to tell you about the conditioning program I put my stormtroopers through.”

“They’re not yours,” Dameron said hotly.

Hux allowed the comment to sit. “Why would I do that?” Hux asked.

Dameron’s jaw worked again. Attractive, certainly. He wondered if that’s why the blasted ‘trooper had defected. They hadn’t been able to program out arousal, so it wasn’t a complete impossibility.

“We’ve had precious few traitors,” Hux said, sure to emphasize _traitor_ , “and those that turned were killed.”

“Except Finn,” Dameron said.

Hux smiled as meanly as he knew how. “Just because he still has a pulse doesn’t mean he isn’t a dead man walking.”

Dameron’s eyes went wide just as Hux finished. Perfect timing. Dameron reached across the table and Hux lunged forward to meet him.

* * *

As soon as he was sure of himself, Ren made contact. To his surprise, it was not _General Organa_ who answered the call but instead someone else. Ren recognized the face but not the name.

Perfect.

Ren closed his eyes behind his mask, listening to the Resistant trash in front of him brag about how they’d managed to bag a First Order General. He could feel the hum and the crackle of the transmission around him. From there, it was simple to track it back—too simple. It had to be a trap.

In front of him, the man who called himself Admiral wanted to arrange a trade—Ren for Hux, as Ren had expected—on on Bivvus II. Ren sensed the transmission came from Pkot Woos.

“Your suggestion will be taken under consideration, _Admiral_ ,” Ren said, sure of his destination. He ended the transmission and spun away. Behind him, Mitaka lurked in a corner, hands behind his back. He couldn’t have looked less imposing if he tried.

“You will do the exchange?” Mitaka asked. He sounded excited—to have Ren gone and his General back, no doubt.

“No,” Ren said, storming past him. “Set a course for Pkot Woos.”

* * *

“You’re not going to get away with this,” Dameron panted. Even with a blaster at his temple, he was trying to be brave. Not bad. Hux expected such behavior from his own men, but it was ever a surprise to see anything admirable in the enemy.

“I am,” Hux said softly, “and you’re going to help me with it.”

Dameron’s eyes went wide. “You need a pilot,” he said.

“I need a pilot.”

Dameron thrashed against Hux, but Hux held firm. Putting the cuffs on Dameron had been a key component of his plan. Getting him to cooperate with the launch sequence on one of those blasted X-wings would be something else, but there was time. A second hostage, maybe—Dameron’s beloved _Finn_.

“Walk,” Hux ordered.

* * *

Ren wasted no time. There could be no meetings, no discussion—no airstrike, either, only ground. Phasma and her ‘troopers would storm the front with Ren. He’d get in, grab Hux, and get back out. As soon as they had Hux, he’d call in the strike and nothing would remain of the Resistance outpost but rubble and ash.

On the shuttle over, Ren hunched, waiting. He’d never enjoyed flying, no matter how many times he’d been exposed to it. It was just another failure, more proof of his own inadequacy.

Across from him, Phasma’s posture mirrored his own. She said nothing, but Ren didn’t need her to speak to know her thoughts. She was determined to retrieve Hux at any costs. They had been close for years; she would destroy each and every Resistance fighter in her way. And if Hux were dead…

Ren shook his head, drawing Phasma’s attention.

“He is alive,” he said.

Phasma didn’t contest the point. “We will leave no one else alive.”

* * *

Through threats to Finn, Hux managed to get Dameron out of the cell, through a series of corridors, and down to the hangar. No sooner had he gotten to a populated area, one that necessitated quick thinking or a rapid change of plans, than the alarms started blaring.

Hux stiffened and pulled Dameron flush against a wall with him. It couldn’t have been _him_ who set off the alarm—there had to be—

“The First Order!” someone screamed. “The Order is here! The Order is here!”

Hux grinned. He didn’t know how they’d done it, but he had the feeling that this was no false alarm: the Order had come for him. “Oh, look,” he said to Dameron, “company’s arrived.”

* * *

Ren charged into the battle without a single regard for his own well-being. _Your fault_ echoed though his mind. Through the hangar bay doors, across the floor, blaster-fire roaring around him— _your fault_.

Ren screamed and hurled himself forward, spinning and swinging with abandon. Resistance fighters cowered before him; most fled, and the rest died. They’d all be dead soon enough.

There, across the floor—a mess of red hair and with a faint stubble, grappling with a familiar face—Poe Dameron. _Hux_.

Ren charged. Dameron caught sight of Ren and dropped his quarry, bolting for the nearest exit. Ren allowed it, if only because he had something better. Hux ran after Dameron but Ren caught him across the chest, pulling him back.

“ _—milla_ ,” Hux snarled, speaking in a language Ren supposed belonged to Arkanis, or at least to the officer class at the Academy. “Let _go_.”

Ren paid him no heed. He hauled Hux across the battlefield, stopping blaster-fire and slicing his way through X-wings until he reached the relative safety of the outside. There were pilots in the air—X-wings and TIEs alike; evidently there was more than one hangar. A pity they wouldn’t all be killed.

“Let _go_ ,” Hux repeated, kicking against Ren. Ren dragged him into his shuttle, put up the ramp and slammed him against the wall. Hux panted from the impact and watched Ren warily as he ripped off his mask.

“I didn’t _tell_ them anything, if that’s what you’re worried abou—”

Hux didn’t get to finish. Ren pressed himself against every available part of Hux, from his lips straight to his toes. It was messy and brutal and _perfect_ because _Hux was alive, back in Ren’s grip_. Hux found purchase in Ren’s hair, tugging until he had space to breathe.

“You absolute _animal_ ,” Hux snarled. It failed to register as anything but a compliment.

“You’re not going out there again,” Ren said. Hux’s hand was on his face, and he nuzzled it. “I’ll kill them all. You’re not going back out there.”

Hux huffed and slumped. “No,” he said. “I’m not.”

Ren took in Hux’s face, finally—bruised, bloodied.

“Poe Dameron,” Hux said. “I want his head.” Ren kissed him again to seal the promise. “Airstrike?”

“Waiting on your command,” Ren spoke agains his lips.

“Kill them all,” Hux murmured.

Ren had never been so happy to accept a command.


End file.
